


Tired

by bobbirose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Draco also has a lot of feelings and thoughts, Draco plays guitar, Draco's nice now, Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, They're not enemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbirose/pseuds/bobbirose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, uh…bye,” Harry says stiffly, walking hurriedly to the door.</p><p>“I’m tired of being the villain,” Draco calls after him, and Harry turns back around, regarding Draco like he had been doing before Ron interrupted.</p><p>“I know,” Harry says, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I think we’re all just so damn tired, Draco.”</p><p>And he leaves.</p><p>Draco sets his book down on the floor, slowly swinging his legs around to rest his feet beside his book. He bows his head and sighs, closing his eyes and feeling a sudden rush of exhaustion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tired

“I buried Dobby,” Harry says one day, lying on his back in his and Draco’s dorm.

Draco looks up, surprised at the comment. He sits back, leaning against the window and focusing his attention on Harry. “She hit Dobby, then. Bellatix.”

Harry nods, his eyes trained carefully on the now former Slytherin on the windowsill. “I dug the grave without magic,” he continues, his eyebrows furrowing together. “Griphook saw me. Said that made me different, somehow.”

”It does,” Draco offers cautiously, continuing when Harry seemed to want him to keep talking. “Most wizard’s instinct would be to do it with magic. It’s how funerals are usually done,” he adds, then shuts his mouth abruptly as he realizes how rude that might have sounded.

Harry doesn’t seem to notice. “I was raised with Muggles, graves aren’t done automatically. And…I wasn’t…the only one upset, I wasn’t the only one who did anything,” he says, growing more troubled with each word. “Hermione—she was the most supportive of him, always, and—and Luna, she gave the eulogy and she hadn’t known him for 20 minutes! I just—it wasn’t all me.”

Draco stares at him, confused.

“I’m the only one who ever gets the headlines,” Harry adds in a quieter voice.

“You’re tired of being the hero,” Draco realizes, blinking suddenly.

Harry laughs without humor. “When you put it that way…”

Draco allows himself a small smile, and soon the room is encompassed in a companionable, if not slightly awkward, silence. Draco takes to staring aimlessly out the window, the book in his hands forgotten. He thinks about what Harry said, and tries to pretend it didn’t shake him as much as it did.

There’s a knock at their door and both boys turn to look as Harry says “come in”.

Ron peeks his head around the door and steals an uncomfortable glance at Draco before addressing Harry.

“Harry, uh, Seamus and Dean want to, uh, play some Quidditch…friendly game, throw the ball around, just until—uh, dinner.”

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but then glances back at Draco, as if he was a reason to decline Ron’s offer.

Draco has the sudden and ridiculous urge to say something like “go ahead” or even “I don’t mind”, but he dismisses the option in the blink of an eye as he flits his eyes back down to his suddenly remembered book.

“Sure, yeah, I’ll be down in a minute,” Harry replies, and Ron nods and shuts the door behind him.

Harry looks quickly back at Draco again before getting up from his position on his bed and going to the clothes he had hastily stashed in the drawers on the second day of term. Draco doesn’t watch him, but he doesn’t exactly absorb the words of his book either.

Harry straightens up, changed into more flexible clothing and carrying his broom beside him like Draco had always known him to do.

“Well, uh…bye,” Harry says stiffly, walking hurriedly to the door.

“I’m tired of being the villain,” Draco calls after him, and Harry turns back around, regarding Draco like he had been doing before Ron interrupted.

“I know,” Harry says, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I think we’re all just so damn tired, Draco.”

And he leaves.

Draco sets his book down on the floor, slowly swinging his legs around to rest his feet beside his book. He bows his head and sighs, closing his eyes and feeling a sudden rush of exhaustion.

 

He remembers the first time he met Harry, in the fitting shop in Diagon Alley, and how promising the boy seemed. He had no idea who he was, of course, which sort of astounds him now that he ever thought of Harry as normal. He remembers how he watched the small child lazily out of the corner of his eye, watched him get fitted, and noted his silence with appreciation. He didn’t think he needed someone like his childhood friend Blaise Zabini, who agreed and disagreed with Draco’s secondhand rants passionately, who spoke and acted like his equal. He wanted someone to guide and shape into exactly what he needed. So caught up in his fantasies, Draco missed entirely the fleck of distaste growing bigger with each sentence in the black-headed boy’s emerald eyes. He remembers seeing Hagrid, he remembers saying something truly awful. He remembers the boy firing off a defensive answer, the cold “I think he’s brilliant” that had surprised Draco so much.

Of course, remembering the conversation now makes Draco flush with shame. But he remembers how Harry made him feel, for six long years, the hatred and regret he felt directed towards the arrogant Gryffindor each time that he saw him strutting around Hogwarts with his friends, flanked by the Weasel or Granger or both. It was a petty but vengeful fire that had always burned bright within both of them, pushing them into making each other miserable every chance they got.

And then came the war.

Then came Draco’s sixth year and his family’s fall from power, then came his father’s stint in Azkaban, and everything Draco thought he knew about reputation and power and responsibility was ripped apart and thrown on the ground in front of him. He understood then how something evil can infiltrate your life and spread and kill everything like a cancer, triumphantly spinning and rushing through your veins to settle on your bones and make you ache. It pushed away lazy afternoons with an adoring Pansy and admiring Crabbe and Goyle, pushed away hating Potter in the back of his mind.

Potter was nothing, nothing to him, for the first time in six years.

But in his sixth year, instead of putting Harry Potter in the back of his mind like he was supposed to do, he found himself dwelling on the Gryffindor more than he ever had before.

Dear god, he tried to stop thinking of him.

His mind was steeped in fear and horror for eleven months while the battle between Potter and his task raged on even in his sleep. Doing everything with shaky hands as Harry stared at him in class, watched him disappear around corners. And when he caught wind that Potter was incredibly suspicious of him, vocal even, offering his name as a suspect for Katie Bell’s attack, something in his mind shorted out and he became wholeheartedly every bit as obsessed with Potter as Potter had become with him.

Then Potter found him crying, and the universe condensed into that cold tiled bathroom, Harry breathless and wide-eyed in the grimy mirror behind him and Draco’s heart stopping for the longest second of his life as he fought the urge to cry for help.

And the resulting fight tore at the edges of his frayed nerves, his already ruptured soul and as he lay bleeding on the floor, Harry helpless and bewildered beside him, Draco felt his heart break and he told himself he had never hated anybody more, and he believed it.

He believed it until Harry Potter vanished from the fucking face of the Earth and then he couldn’t think of anything else.

He didn’t sleep and when he did he dreamed of Harry, of Harry dying, of Harry being captured, of Harry being tortured, of being forced to torture Harry.

And now he still dreams about that day at Malfoy Manor, and being absolutely sure it was Harry Potter kneeling in front of him, and not saying anything.

Then the war ended.

And his father was tried and sent to Azkaban, and he and his mother lost the house and tried to forget they had ever lived there, that their family and namesake was etched in the very walls being torn down, and he decided to attend Hogwarts for what was supposed to be his seventh year.

And he discovered he was roommates with the one and only Harry Potter, and his heart skipped a beat for the second time in his entire life.

And of course Harry didn’t know any of this, all from Draco’s perspective, and Draco didn’t think he’d ever tell him. Maybe, on a day similar to today, but unlikely. And not now.

Draco is sure Harry just remembers the endless fight, Draco as the endless roadblock and forever an antagonist, the years of his bullying and deceit and evil.

There was only one memory they both shared in a common perspective, and it had happened a few weeks earlier as they arrived at Hogwarts and stood in their dorm, completely alone.

They had stood side by side, not looking at the other. Their trunks had been placed neutrally in the center of the room.

An offering.

Harry turned to Draco, and Draco lifted his gaze up to meet Harry’s eyes. The option hung the air. Draco could easily have mustered up all the spite and hatred he thought he felt towards him and spit in his face, the name “ _Potter_ ” forced from his mouth like some kind of curse. Potter would have darkened, his eyes growing cold as he drew the name “ _Malfoy”_ from his throat, from his chest, _masculine and heroic,_ like how someone would announce that a serious evil has arrived and that he planned to defeat it.

But as they locked eyes, gray met green and Draco saw it in the planes of Harry’s face, the drooping of his eyelids. Harry saw it in the turned corners of Draco’s mouth and his sunken cheeks and lifeless eyes.

They were both just too tired.

Harry had sighed, breaking eye contact to stare again at the luggage on the floor in front of him.

“Which bed do you want, Draco?” he had said.

 

Draco opens his eyes.

He had drifted off at some point, and now the sun shines too brightly through the window. He frowns and turns his head, and starts when he sees Harry lounging contentedly on the bed across from his, flipping through  _The_   _Daily Prophet_.

He looks up at Draco’s sudden movement.

“Oh,” he says, “you’re up.”

“I didn’t know I was asleep,” Draco mumbles, blinking to try and clear the sleep from his eyes.

“You were out when I got back. I tried not to wake you up,” Harry replies, looking apologetic.

Draco shakes his head. “You’re fine,” he says quickly, and Harry smiles a little. “Um, how was Quidditch?”

Harry looks a bit surprised at the question. “It was…nice,” he responds lamely.

Draco nods politely, expecting Harry to turn awkwardly back to his paper. But he doesn’t.

“It’s been so long,” he continues quietly, “since I’ve really done something like that. I forgot…how much I loved it.”

Draco sits up slowly, remembering how important it used to be to him, at twelve or thirteen years old, to beat Harry at Quidditch. To fly better, to always have the better broom. Now, all Draco can feel is a strange warmth and happiness go through him as he pictures Harry flying for the first time perhaps since their sixth year at Hogwarts.

“Feel better, I assume?” Draco asks, his eyes on Harry’s. Harry nods, smiling unconsciously.

“I’d invite you out there too, but I’m actually feeling quite tired now,” Harry says.

“Mm,” Draco hums, stretching and falling back down on his bed. “I’d recommend a nap.”

Harry laughs. “Another time, then.”

Draco looks at him curiously. He has now been twice casually invited to fly with Harry, like he was Ron or Dean or Ginny or Seamus. Like he was a friend.

“You’d want to?” Draco asks, and Harry seems to realize what he had said. He rubs the back of his neck and Draco sees his face flush.

“Er…yeah,” Harry replies.

Draco blinks.

“Unless you don’t,” Harry adds quickly, his sheepish smile dropping at the look on Draco’s face.

“I do,” Draco replies softly, still a bit disbelieving. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry replies awkwardly, his smile returning.

“I should go and eat something,” Draco says, clearing his throat, and Harry nods.

“I might sleep,” Harry yawns, and Draco laughs in response. Swinging his legs over the side of his bed, he gets up and ignores the blood rushing from his head.

As he closes the door behind him, he contemplates the events that would follow if he told Harry that he loves him.

 

The second time Harry surprises him with one of his random comments they're studying in a vaguely connected manner, silently trading notes and occasionally asking for clarifications.

They had fallen into a sort of lull, the window now shut against the rapidly approaching autumn temperatures. The sentences in his textbook and Harry's sloppy handwriting may as well be in Korean for all the good it was doing him; he was absorbing nothing.

So he sits back, closes his eyes and breathes a slow, tired breath out of his nose.

He can hear Harry's quill stop scratching notes into the margins of his book as the dark haired boy glances at Draco.

"You know, you sing in your sleep," Harry comments, and Draco's eyes fly open.

"What?" Draco replies, caught completely off-guard.

"You sing in your sleep," Harry repeats, his face flushing slightly. "It's quiet and you never really sing words or...any song I know, but you definitely sing."

Draco blinks. "If this is some sort of prank it's an incredibly dull one," he says, but he knows from the look on Harry's face that he's being serious.

"I'm not having you on or anything," Harry replies honestly, unnecessarily.

"I've never heard that before," Draco counters.

Harry shrugs. "It's okay, I don't mind it," he says, obviously trying to appease Draco. "It's nice," he adds, as an afterthought, in a slightly smaller voice.

“I like to sing,” Draco admits, and he sees Harry’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Not many people know that.”

Harry laughs. “No, I don’t believe that. If you had talent you would have used that to win over twice as many girls as you got!”

Draco’s mouth falls open. “ _Girls?!_ ” he sputters. He hasn’t thought of _girls_ since his fifth year. _Girls_ were unimportant in the fight for his and his family’s life and sanity.

“Everyone wanted the mysterious _Slytherin_ _Prince_ in sixth year,” Harry says, and Draco flushes. Hearing the words “Slytherin Prince” come out of Harry’s mouth was too much.

“Dark, brooding, rebellious, total bad boy,” Harry continues, batting his eyelashes at Draco, who barks a laugh, his face going even redder.

“Well you’d know, I suppose, as you spent so much time staring at me.”

The joke is out of his mouth before Draco can stop it, and Harry gapes at him in shock. Draco holds his breath.

Slowly, like glaciers moving apart, a smile begins to form on Harry’s face. “You stared back, _Prince_.”

Draco says nothing, just stares blankly at the book open on the table in front of him as the word “ _flirting_ ” registers dimly in the back of his mind.

“Sing something for me,” Harry murmurs, and Draco’s eyes flicker up to the brilliant green ones gazing at him through round glasses.

“Alright,” Draco agrees, his heart pounding in his chest as he rises from his chair and crosses the room to retrieve the case under his bed.

Harry’s eyes widen as he recognizes what’s in Draco’s hands.

“A guitar is a muggle instrument,” Harry says, obviously, pointing to the instrument.

Draco wordlessly returns to his seat and sits down, glancing down as a he strums something easy, neutral: a G chord, making sure it’s still tuned.

“Music predates most magic,” Draco informs him casually, glancing up at Harry, who’s still watching the blond intently.

“You don’t mind that?” Harry asks boldly, and Draco raises his eyebrows.

“I like to sing,” Draco repeats quietly, and Harry smiles at him again, his head tilting down slightly and eyes gleaming.

“So sing,” Harry prompts him, matching Draco’s volume, making his voice hushed and deeper.

An involuntary shiver runs through Draco as he closes his eyes and lifts his fingers to the strings.

He strums an A, decides on the song and continues the soulful melody.

He opens his eyes and sees Harry’s lips part in surprise as he recognizes the song.

_“When the night has come_

_and the land is dark,_

_and the moon is the only light we’ll see…”_

Draco sings easily, softly, almost hesitantly, his tenor voice wavering slightly as he notices Harry’s smile grow and his eyes soften, the intensity lessening somewhat he gazes at Draco, unashamed.

_“No I won’t be afraid,_

_Oh I won’t be afraid_

_Just as long_

_As you stand_

_Stand by me.”_

He allows himself a smile at Harry’s reaction, which leads to a shy grin and a breathy laugh out of the former Slytherin as he drops his head again, continuing to play.

_“So darling, darling_

_Stand by me_

_Oh, stand by me_

_Oh stand, stand by me._

Draco’s voice grows, simple but husky, to sing the chorus. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, his unusually shaggy hair falling away from his face.

Harry flushes, still watching Draco. He can’t look away, can barely stand to blink.

_“If the sky that we look upon_

_Should tumble and fall_

_And the mountains should crumble_

_To the sea…”_

He glances up again, and Harry has gotten to his feet, looking down at Draco with a sort of lost expression, as if he was hardly daring to breathe.

_“I won’t cry, I won’t cry,_

_No I won’t shed a tear._ ”

Harry walks to the edge of Draco’s chair, and as Draco watches him, his heart slows and every pound is a thrumming beat throughout his entire body, in his throat and his head.

He barely gets out the next two lines, his strumming slowing as the two boys just stare at each other, helpless.

_“Just as long as you stand,_

_Stand by me.”_

Harry leans down, his lips still parted and eyes still so, so lost. He rests a knee on the seat of Draco’s chair, one hand coming up to the back of Draco’s chair and the other to rest on top of Draco’s fingers, still in position on the neck of the guitar.

Draco is paralyzed. Draco cannot move, not even if he wanted to. He is pinned by Harry’s gaze, still searching, the emerald of his eyes and the dark fringe of his lashes.

Neither can breathe.

They both reach for each other at the same time, Draco’s head reaching up and Harry ducking down, hands cupping jaws, and Harry gets there first.

Draco’s eyes drift shut as Harry’s lips press to his, slowly, carefully, unsure. He responds just as softly, and it’s sweet and his heart is still doing that earth-shattering pulse thing and it’s a whole galaxy of unanswered questions that don’t exactly matter.

Harry pulls back, his eyes barely open, breathing hard.

Neither says a word.

Draco leans back, keeping his face a mask of neutrality, carefully removes his guitar from the space between him and Harry, and surges up to meet the other boy’s lips once again.

Harry gasps into Draco’s mouth and grips his face with both hands, Draco’s arms winding around the back of Harry’s neck as he’s pulled up from his chair.

This time, Draco can feel the lightning running through him literally everywhere, and he lets a small moan escape him as Harry pulls him closer, resting a hand on Draco’s lower back.

Harry drops his head even lower to kiss the underside of Draco’s jaw. Draco’s mouth falls open and he sucks in a breath.

“You were so gorgeous,” Harry murmurs, “sitting there, you looked so peaceful, so…beautiful. Even more so now.”

“I didn’t know,” Draco gasps, “I didn’t know you—there’s so much—“

“Draco,” Harry growls, his lips vibrating against the sensitive skin of Draco’s neck, “shut up so I can kiss you again.”

Draco whimpers as Harry captures his lips again, his teeth scraping his bottom lip and making Draco collapse against Harry and feels the former Gryffindor’s arms tighten around him.

The sun is just beginning to set as the boys kiss and stumble their way onto Draco’s bed.

 

_Two Weeks Later_

Things are still new. Things are still foreign, new territory for both of them. They’re finding out all they can about each other, little things they could have lived their whole life and not have known.

Draco knows now that Harry _does_ snore, but only really quietly and if he’s gone to bed after a certain time. And of course the prat can make _snoring_ endearing.

Harry knows that Draco goes to sleep with socks on but the socks never last the entire night.

Things are still lovely.

But things are still awkward. Unavoidable questions still crop up, during still silences or when one of them just can’t bear not knowing.

They haven’t fought yet, not really. There are the stiff silences after an untoward comment from Ron or Zabini, a growing tension when they both run out of things to say.

Once, Draco caught Harry staring at him with an expression dangerously close to how he’d look at him in their sixth year, out of the corner of his eye. Oh, Draco could have screamed at him then.

But Draco just shook his head, walked up to him and kissed him, loving the way Harry slowly and completely relaxed against him, heard the other boy sigh into the kiss, felt his arms wrap surely around his waist.

The problem remained, however, and Draco finds himself sitting cross legged on his bed, facing Harry, who sits and stares at him in an identical position.

It’s almost 10 pm. Draco closes his eyes, exhales.

It had been a long day leading up to this.

They had agreed, a few days prior, to finally have The Fight.

The years of hatred and confusion and misunderstandings had not been undone in a few weeks of happiness, there were hostilities between them they don’t even remember forming. They had both been changed so much by the war, but it didn’t make them new people.

So yes, they were to have a proper match, complete with the screaming, the confessions and the crying.

There were too many questions and uncertainties to let things sit and simmer any longer.

 “You first?” Harry says now. Joking, obviously, trying to diffuse the tension in the room.

“You’ve probably got more questions,” Draco whispers back, smiling weakly.

Harry’s lips part and a look of uncertainty flashes across his face. He sighs and takes Draco’s hands.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. He does that a lot, Draco notices. “It’s all going to be fine. We’re just going to have it out a bit, nothing we can’t handle.”

Draco closes his eyes. And this is the first time he surprises Harry with something he says.

“I used to dress up as you.”

Harry blinks.

“…what?”

“When I was a child, you know how children are, they dress up as—as heroes, or villains, I guess, they play games, play pretend.”

“Draco, you didn’t know me.”

Draco sighs. “Hermione’s right, you can be unbelievably thick sometimes.”

“Don’t hold back or anything,” Harry replies sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Keep going.”

“The whole Wizarding world knew you, Harry. Defeated Voldemort, just a baby? Earned you some notoriety, in case you never noticed.”

“Well, yeah, okay, so you knew my name. But again, I was _one_. I don’t think I even had a sense of permanence yet, much less a sort of personality or…backstory. Essentially, you didn’t _know_ me.”

Draco’s eyebrows go up. “Exactly. Here, put yourself in my…in other people’s shoes.”

Harry nods, his mouth grim. “You mean Voldemort’s followers.”

“Yes. My family, for instance. Do you think my mother and father—mainly my father—followed Voldemort out of any sense of loyalty? Of love or idolatry or honor?”

Harry shakes his head slowly. “I…guess not,” he says.

“See, that’s your problem. It’s always been your problem.”

“What?” Harry says, and Draco can sense the small streak of irritation in Harry’s voice.

“It’s how you view the other side. How you always viewed it. You think that everyone on the side of the “others” is more or less the same because they’re working against you. An obstacle was just that—just something to be overcome. Never something to be analyzed.”

“Sorry, I guess I should have profiled all the Death Eaters as they were trying to kill me and my friends. My bad,” Harry shoots back, and Draco shrinks back, regretting his comments but feeling more than a little annoyed at Harry as well.

It’s silent for a minute, and then Harry sighs. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, and Draco meets his honest gaze.

“Me too,” he admits. “I wasn’t trying to get you to…humanize Bellatrix or Yaxely or any of them. I was trying to get you to see them differently.”

“How so?”

“We were all there for different reasons. Bellatrix, she…she would have followed Voldemort to the ends of the earth and beyond for god knows why. She was there purely out of blind and insane love and devotion to him and the cause. But the problem is, you all saw them as Bellatrix. You assumed that everyone wearing those masks were following Voldemort because they wanted to, because they believed fully in the cause. But that’s…not it. Most of us—my father, for instance—followed because it was convenient. Sure, we all believed in the cause: that Muggles were second class, less than human even. But most of us didn’t go around killing in our spare time. We had our lives,” Draco adds, thinking of his family’s vacations to France and Italy, of family portrait gatherings and reading his favorite books over and over again to calm himself down. “We had our reasons.”

Harry doesn’t say anything.

“But then,” Draco continues, “it was all just fear. We stuck around, in the end, because it was kill or be killed. Cause pain or feel it. God, it was terrifying. That’s all it was for me and my family, my disgraced family after the Ministry at the end of our fifth year—that’s what started it all.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not sorry,” he says, almost warningly.

“You shouldn’t be.”

“That shouldn’t have happened to you.”

“Well, it did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You just said you weren’t.”

“Yeah, well, I am.”

Draco stares at the sheets below him, neatly made up like they were this morning.

“I’ll always be sorry.”

“So will I.”

There’s another still silence, the cicadas outside chirping away like they know summer’s almost gone and they can’t help but get their last songs in.

Harry leans forward and kisses him again, and Draco reaches a hand up to brush Harry’s hair away from his face as he accepts the kiss, feeling some of the tension leave his body.

It’s an affirmation, a “we’re still okay” kiss, and Draco is grateful.

Harry pulls back, closer now than he was before, a confused look on his face.

“I still don’t get you dressing up as me,” Harry says.

Draco sits back on his heels, deciding the best way to explain his childhood memories.

“That first time Voldemort fell—when he couldn’t kill you—we all…held our breath. That’s how father used to describe it; 11 years of waiting, of speculation…” Draco trails off, shutting his eyes, trying to remember the early years of his childhood. The tense conversations behind closed doors with his father’s “friends from work”, the snippets of fights between his parents he’d catch from his hiding spot on the staircase, just out of sight.

“Speculating what?” Harry asks sharply, his confusion leading into paranoia.

“At it simplest? Why you killed him,” Draco answers honestly, and Harry sputters angrily.

“I didn’t _kill_ him! I was _a baby_! I had literally no idea what was happening and the first thing I’m known as worldwide is a _murderer_!” He spits the last word out, leaping from the bed and leaving Draco to stare helplessly after him.

“We knew _that_ ,” Draco tries to calm him down, but Harry still doesn’t look at him. “What we didn’t know is why he died, what that meant about you.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry is glaring at him, and Draco starts to feel his irritation spike up again. This wasn’t _his_ fault! But he takes a calming breath, because he doesn’t feel quite like yelling yet. He still has the point of the story to get across to Harry, who seems warily clueless now, a look that almost puts a smirk on Draco’s face, but he stifles that too. For now.

“Harry, think of what I told you about what loyalty really means to us. Loyalty is to the pureblood lineage, not necessarily Voldemort. _So_ , when this new, mysterious, obviously incredible entity defeats him—that’s you, by the way, believe it or not—we weren’t sure what we were looking at…and…a lot of us believed…you would replace Voldemort. As our leader.” Draco says the word decisively, and he hears Harry stop breathing.

“They thought—what?”

Draco merely shrugs, watching the growing look of horror on Harry’s face.

“Father used to tell me about that night; theories of his, things of the like, and it used to fascinate me. The famous Harry Potter,” he recalls, and it’s the first time Harry has heard the phrase spoken without a trace of resentment, “come to lead a new Wizarding Order. The way my father—other people—spoke about you…” he trails off, glancing up at Harry’s dumbstruck expression. “You were my hero.”

“Everything changed when you started Hogwarts, of course,” Draco continues, almost reassuringly. “Actually, everything changed from the second you turned down my friendship.”

Harry laughs incredulously, and Draco stares at him.

“What?”

“I just have the feeling that you’re about to blame years of bullying and trauma that _you did_ on me and some rejected handshake, that’s all.”

“You could have been a lot nicer, you know!” Draco retorts, stung by Harry’s reaction. “Just because you were on the morally just side doesn’t mean you were perfectly pleasant.”

“And what about you!” Harry yells, the disbelief in what Draco was arguing highly evident in his voice. “You had just made fun of the only friend I’d ever made, right after being all—all— _entitled_ and shit in that fitting shop—“

“I’m not like that anymore!” Draco yells back.

“But you _were_ , and you don’t seem to be sorry!” Harry bites out, and a ringing silence is left after his last shout.

Draco’s mouth falls open, his mind going blank. Herein, he supposes, somewhere where his mind is still working, lies the difference between him and Harry.

“You still hate the person I was,” Draco says slowly, not really looking at Harry’s reaction.

“Draco—“

“It’s okay,” Draco interrupts him, “so do I.”

Harry freezes, and Draco looks up at him, briefly considering whether to pass it off as some weird, self-loathing joke.

Then Harry crosses back over to the bed and sits down beside Draco, hesitantly curling an arm around Draco’s shoulders.

“Draco,” he begins, “I only hated you—like you hated me—because I…never had _time_ to do anything else. Except for sixth year, when I stalked you more than I hated you—and I never thought why—“

“Probably my newly-refined jawline, or the deep blue of my eyes,” Draco offers, smiling weakly, and Harry grins.

“It was more your hair, I think. You stopped being so careful with your hair,” Harry replies, turning to face him more and running a hand through the shaggy white-blond that sat on Draco’s head.

Draco suppresses a moan at the pleasant sensation, and laughs breathily instead. “Stop distracting me, Potter,” he says halfheartedly, and is kind of surprised when he feels Harry’s hand drop from his hair.

“Actually, I thought I was the one confessing the backstory to my obsession with you,” Harry says seriously, searching and holding Draco’s gaze, and Draco almost wants to lean away from the intensity of it.

Harry just doesn’t seem to be aware how intense he could be at times, all green-eyed passion and determination.

But Draco is, and he can’t look away.

“As I was saying,” Harry continues, “I don’t know when you became a real person to me. But you did, and it was just me that didn’t recognize you’ve always been that way. People change, and you did, but…you didn’t change completely. I just look at you differently now.”

“Well, I should hope so, seeing as you’re shagging me,” Draco snorts, and Harry blushes.

“Well…yeah, that too,” Harry mumbles, and Draco laughs more fully this time, leaning into the arm still around his shoulder.

Harry nuzzles into his hair, closing his eyes.

They both recognize that the fight has ended, and they’re glad.

A yawn suddenly threatens to overtake Draco, but he manages to stifle it, blinking in surprise.

“Tired?” Harry asks, looking down at Draco.

“No,” Draco lies, and Harry laughs.

“Good,” Harry says, in his best seductive voice, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Smooth, Potter.”

"Shut up Malfoy."

“Make me.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

And he does.

 

Later, when they collapse on the bed together, Draco finally feels at peace.

Content, with Harry at his side, breathing heavily against him, sated arms wrapping around him once more as sunlight once again filters through their shared window.

Some sort of exhilarated laugh bubbles up his chest and chases its way through his throat, expelling itself from his mouth and he feels Harry smile against his neck at the sound.

They lie there, silently in love with each other and the world around them, somehow encased in a golden glow again.

“Tired yet?” Harry murmurs, and Draco nods sleepily.

So they fall asleep together, lulled into unconsciousness by the early morning light and the feeling of a new day.


End file.
